


A Story of Happiness

by GreyWolfandMoon



Series: Deep Sea Knows No End [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Fuck Canon, It's more about Wolfstar than Remadora, M/M, No Tonks bashing though, Post-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, brutal reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21861148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyWolfandMoon/pseuds/GreyWolfandMoon
Summary: Life after that was great. Somehow, it was the happiest days he’d lived in a long time. Life as a married man, with a family, a son: everything that he had dreamed of but thought he would never have as a child.
Relationships: Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Deep Sea Knows No End [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658617
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	A Story of Happiness

**Author's Note:**

> I had thought of not tagging Remus/Tonks but thought the tag would give people a heads up. Likewise for Remadora fans for the wolfstar tag.

For a very long period of time, his heart had been rippleless. It existed, it beat, it provided him every drop of blood his body needed for its daily functions, but it stayed just that. It was an organ, and nothing more.

And then she appeared. An animated little thing, with endless joy and laughter and mischief. Oh _mischief_ – he had nothing to do with it anymore. It was once his whole world – making mischief was his side job to being a morally upright prefect. Yep, morally upright when it came to punishing Slytherin students. The potions that his friends spilled, the armours that they dismantled, it was none of his business.

That’s right, he’d always been good at presenting himself differently as the situation required. She came to him with the face of a delighted child, full of pride and longing for a compliment, telling him the about third batch of death eaters she’d caught this month. To her, he was the warm, quiet, bookish professor. To her, he was old and interesting and full of stories. To her, he needed spirit, and youth, and liveliness, and she could give him them all.

And indeed he was old. Written in him were stories of a stag, a dog, a wolf and a rat, of wild boys running around and the tastes of first love. Now, years later, more stories were written, read, paused on a particular page, and then hoarded in the depths of his soul as life continued to tear him apart. The shell of a kind professor was his bookshelf to store all his life stories up so that others wouldn’t see the blood and tears that stained the covers of these books.

They say don’t lick your wounds. But he wasn’t normal people, was he? He didn’t only lick through all his wounds, he scratched them open, tore them up, and watched with masochistic thrill as blood oozed out. He remembered them being the subject of someone’s attention. They were admired, respected, loved, caressed, kissed, remembered. Each one of them. The exact shape, the exact position, the exact incident that had caused them.

To her, they were wounds, and in need of treatment. To him, and to those who knew the weight they held, they were _him_.

He regarded her with interest. He could see how they were related – the gay laughter, the rebellious nature, the smooth hair, the shape of eyes. He would’ve taken her hand without a second thought, he reckoned, if he was twenty years younger. He liked that very much when he was a child, just like with –

Well. And then he grew older. He realised, with fond memories, that he liked the companion of quiet big house and fuming teacups. He liked the safety that the big house promised amidst the chaos outside, something he had not the luxury of the last time it was like that. She visited sometimes, and brought with her the tastiest sweets (‘no chocolate for the big bad dog!’ she’d said) and updates on the outside world. He still cared, in some sense, but not as much as he did last time. He’d learned to let himself rest and spend time the way he wanted, because, you know, no one knew what would happen tomorrow.

‘Marry me,’ she’d said, and he knew at once why he loved her. She had the exact same thought as he: they both knew they were living on borrowed time. Only that he was more experienced, and he knew more than anyone in this world what he wanted most. She had her priorities, and he had his: he’d never let go this time. Not for the world.

At last, _he_ let go. The wild boy in him perished with the fanning of the veil. He was, at last, entirely, totally, from head to toe, the level-headed, learned, serious professor. She offered him everything a broken man needed. He was whole again – somehow – a semi-circle is still an intact shape. Besides, it cheered people up.

‘Till death do us part,’ he’d said, the rational professor in him finally taking full control. He loved her, he admired her, he wanted everyone to be happy. He knew best it was only responsible that he take her.

Life after that was great. Somehow, it was the happiest days he’d lived in a long time. Life as a married man, with a family, a son: everything that he had dreamed of but thought he would never have as a child. But he couldn’t help but think of the what ifs, of _not_ leading a perfect happy life as a married man with a loving wife and newborn son. Maybe he would have to be on the dole, and live in a small, shabby flat in London. Maybe he would have to take on day jobs and night jobs and have cold, badly cooked rice for dinner, and reuse his teabag for the tenth time in a week. Maybe he would have to get in a fight, jinx someone a little, because they threw a homophobic remark. Maybe he would have to rack his brain on how to buy dog treats without using up their savings that month.

The baby cried. He got up, kissed his wife, and went for the diapers.


End file.
